“Of course,” he said, accepting the document she offered. “Most sensible, although,” he weighed the sack in with his hand, “this amount seems substantially less than what we agreed upon.”
“Hence the receipt,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve taken the liberty of making a copy for you. Once Mr. Darcy is back, he will pay you the rest.”
Wickham signed the bottom of the page, making a note of the partial payment of ten pounds and looked at Lady Eleanor. “I believed my business was with you, my ladyship.”
“And it was,” Lady Eleanor said. “Shall I perhaps procure a finder’s fee for this most profitable venture?”
Elizabeth could barely keep a giggle from slipping from her lips. She could sense Georgiana doubled over with laughter behind the thick velvet curtains. “Thank you, Mr. Wickham. Your assistance in this matter has been most helpful.”
Something in her tone must have alerted him, for his gaze sharpened, reassessing her with new wariness. “I am glad to have been of service,” he said, his charm now slightly strained around the edges. “Though I trust our transaction will remain private? For both our sakes.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth assured him with wide-eyed innocence. “Iwould not wish to involve Mr. Collins in any scandal, particularly given his connection to Lady Catherine.”
Relief eased the tension in Wickham’s shoulders as he pocketed the pouch of coins. “Most considerate. Well, I shall not impose upon your hospitality further, Mrs. Darcy. Lady Eleanor. I wish you both a good day.”
“It has been a pleasure, Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth sharpened her tongue. “I shall be sure to bring this most felicitous transaction to Mr. Darcy’s attention. Perhaps you might pay us a visit soon? So charming for acquaintances of such long standing to aid with so delicate an affair.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WELCOME HOME, MR. DARCY
Darcy’s spiritsweighed heavily as his carriage rocked over the mud-soaked lane leading back to Bellfield Grange. He had failed, once again. Days of weary travel could not erase the disappointing sight of that parish registry book. The temporary curate, not Mr. Collins, had shown him the knife cuts in the binding—the page for December 3, 1811 missing. Reverend Michaels had passed recently, and no one other than the innkeeper and his wife remembered Darcy’s hasty marriage to Elizabeth.
Across from him, Graham sat stoic. His jaw was tight, and he hadn’t fared any better among the ostlers and barmen in the taproom. Some remembered George Wickham, most didn’t. The inn was full of travelers, and highwaymen prowled the roads. There was nothing remarkable about any of the attacks, and nothing tying Wickham to the crimes.
Yet Darcy’s memory was clear. Wickham had stood over him. Two men had held him down and another man raised an iron bar.
Finish it!
And then voices. Wickham’s smooth tones assuring thewitnesses that he was in charge, steward of Pemberley, and then, just before Darcy had blacked out.
I’ll inform his wife of this unfortunate incident.
“Elizabeth. I have failed you,” Darcy whispered.
Graham stirred in the seat opposite him, noting the grim set of his master’s jaw. “Sir, perhaps the homecoming will prove more encouraging than our disappointments.”
“I’m unsure of my welcome,” Darcy replied. “All we’ve accomplished was to purchase every debt Wickham left behind. I cannot take care of the many children in his wake, and neither will I advance him any more credit. He shall pay the last farthing he owes.”
“You seem different since the Red Lion, sir,” Graham remarked, deftly deflecting the conversation from his despair. “More centered, if I may be so bold.”
“Memory changes a man. Particularly when what one remembers is both beautiful and painful.”
Graham’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sir?”
“I remember everything. Every moment of that December night, every word Elizabeth and I spoke, every promise I made.” Darcy’s fingers moved unconsciously to his waistcoat pocket, where the silver button rested. “Documents cannot create what already exists between us. They can only confirm it.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened as Bellfield Grange emerged through the light rain. Elizabeth was there. William—his son—was there. Whether they would receive him as husband and father remained to be seen.
“If I may, sir,” Graham said as the carriage rolled to a stop, “whatever happens, remember that Mrs. Darcy has waited nearly two years for your return. A few difficult moments cannot erase that devotion.”
Darcy nodded, grateful for the man’s insight. “Thank you, Graham. For everything.”
The door opened, and Darcy stepped down into the rain. Unlike his first arrival at Bellfield, the weather kept thehousehold indoors. A footman hurried forward with an umbrella, and Darcy found himself irrationally disappointed not to see Elizabeth among the welcoming party.
Georgiana met him in the entrance hall, embracing him despite his damp coat. “Brother! Thank heaven you’ve returned safely. Your express said so little—we’ve been worried.”
He’d left his letter to Elizabeth unfinished, unable to express the depth of his pain at recalling what should have been the most memorable moments of his life. Instead, he’d dashed a hasty note to Georgiana assuring her of his safety.
